


endorsement

by kenopsia (indie)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 21:12:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6675616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indie/pseuds/kenopsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Kent Parson had come to Samwell with his temper under lock and key to see an old friend, things might have been different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	endorsement

You’re still angry when you go to see him. On the train, you lecture yourself in long continuous streams. You’re so, so tired of being your own enemy; you’re going to make this trip like a politician — stick to your talking points, remain unruffled in the face of opposition, you’re going to sign arms and kiss babies and leave with your ex-something’s endorsement. 

It’s easier said than done, of course, because when you ask him if Las Vegas is on his radar, he says  _ I don’t know  _ the same way your dad talks about people of ethnic groups he finds vaguely distasteful. Your own indignation flares inside of you. You want to hit him, you want to tell him what you’ve wanted to for three years, how you really feel about him scaring you half to death and then not answering your calls through rehab like  _ you  _ were the one that fucked up his life, and now he’s at his shitty school and  _ still  _ he’s not ready to give you some closure.

And scraping past that, humiliatingly, there’s still some remnant of loyalty for him under that, thin but practically foundational. When the sick, angry diatribe rises up in you, you swallow it down. It may make you sick, like too much stomach acid, but spitting it up at Jack’s feet is hardly going to do what you set out to accomplish. 

“Well,” you say, even though it stings, “I’m here for you wherever you go next year. It’ll be good just to have you on the ice.”

And there it is. It’s like you’ve unlocked some door into the past, where you got to see at the end of the night, when he crawled, usually drunk, out of his jeans and his exoskeleton to whisper his fears in the dark of lonely hotel rooms. “Just hard, you know. I don’t want to get compared to Bad Bob.” 

“That’s going to happen,” you say, just glad that he might be letting you in. You step closer, close enough to touch his jaw. You don’t, but you  _ could.  _ “Whether you’re on one of your dad’s old teams or you join the Falcs.”

“The Falcs,” he echoes. 

“That was a joke,” you tell him, but he looks thoughtful now. 

You spend four years having everything you say to him met with hostility and this is the flip comment that slips right past Jack’s defenses. You could choke on the irony. “Point just being,” you soldier on, “you’re going to blow them away on your own. They’ll get tired of the legacy bullshit after a while, I imagine.” 

“Thanks,” Jack says dryly, but you knew him better than anyone, once. It’s entirely possible he means it. 

You move into his personal space. You — in juniors, there was something, timid and unarticulated, unconsummated, a sting of  _ uns _ , but you’d eat a puck if it was unrequited. “You look good.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. You’ve misstepped. He’s never known what to do with praised not crouched in jocular teasing. 

You give him enough time to move.

He doesn’t move. As you press against him, warm and rumpled in his hoodie, and tentative at the mouth, you hear a phantom echo of the worst case scenario,  _ I can’t, Kent,  _ but it doesn’t come. You move slow, wary of his startle, but the flinch never comes. 

“Let me know if I need to tell my GM that you’re ready to be on my line again,” you tell him, when you pull away. “They’ll free up cap space for you.”

Jack doesn’t look amused, but he doesn’t say  _ no,  _ either, which feels like a good start. He looks faintly dazed and his mouth is still wet. It’s a good look on him. You only got to fantasize about it, before. You’re both so different, now, but some things stay the same. 

“Hi,” you say, bypassing  _ I’m sorry,  _ and  _ you should apologize,  _ and  _ where the fuck were you when I needed you.  _ You both owe each other a lot of apologies, but tonight is not the night. 

“Thanks for coming.”

“You should call me,” you say, channeling your inner politician, and getting off the stage while the crowd is still cheering. “I miss you.”

“You always say that,” he says. You look at him pointedly. “Alright,” he says, and puts a hand in your sweatshirt. You can feel his knuckles through the inner lining of the pocket. Your breath catches in your chest. “I miss you too.” 

The train ride back is lonely, but you don’t have to lecture yourself in transit. 

It’s a small victory. 


End file.
